Triple Cross
by juliasejanus
Summary: News reaches MI6 of the fact John Rider wants out of his deep cover assignment as an assassin for Scorpia. The cause his wife's advanced pregnancy. Rather than jeopardize their agent in place, Alan Blunt plans to force John Rider to stay to avenge the death of his wife and unborn child. THe story of Helen, John and Alex Rider. AU pre Malta.
1. Chapter 1

January 28th 1987

Helen Beckett was eight and a half months pregnant. Huge, uncomfortable and wanting ice cream at 3am. She lay in bed and had a debate with herself wether to get up and go to her favourite hang out, the 24 hour garage on Jamaica Road Bermondsey. A place that guaranteed junk food, donuts, chocolate and ice cream no matter what the hour. Her bump was the ruler of her world, after four months of pucking at the mere thought of anything except cheese and pickle sandwiches, she now craved sugar at the oddest times. Her colleague in A&E, Rashida, stated her never-ending cravings for ice cream and ice lollies meant she was having a boy. Helen had been quite insistent during her scans that she did not want to know the sex of her baby. She was thirty-five and considered an older, high risk pregnancy, so had had three scans and undergone her tests to ensure a healthy baby. Junior was thriving and on line to be a natural birth. She was good friends with the midwives at Guys, where she currently worked, her birth plan worked out. The nurse no longer worked in radiology but in A&E, hectic and always busy. Helen liked her work and she was glad of her independence. There was on site daycare, so her bump would be well looked after when she worked shifts after her six months of maternity leave. She had no family to fall back on, just friends. She had tried to make things work with John, but he always put himself and his work first. This unplanned and completely unexpected bun in her oven had steeled Helen to finally be her own boss. Her catholic upbringing meant she only considered abortion as a last resort. She still was thankful she had not been made to decide to abort or carry a disabled child. Now, within weeks of the birth she had hardened her heart. No longer would she simper and chase after John, not after the 20 minute chat in Paris that was supposed to be them discussing the future like adults. His reassurances that everything would be OK after junior emerged was just hot air. Helen would continue to work, be a mother and she would file for divorce. A quickie was a certainty with John's checkered past and his complete absence from prenatal care and classes. John, her beautiful John, got no more chances. The spell in prison had been the last time she stood by him no matter what. After 10 years together, she realized she had spent 95% of that time on her own.

Helen dressed and left via the fire escape rather than disturb the Mrs. Patel across the hall. The nosy old woman seemed never to sleep and always seemed far to interested in Helen and her impending arrival. Her one bedroom flat in Bermondsey was cramped but cheap. She missed the townhouse she and John had shared in Chelsea.

She was dressed like a tramp, she had to admit. Large hoodie with hood pulled up, enormous anorak and sweatpants, she skirted down the rear alley on Prospect Street and across the small patch of trees providing cover before crossing the A200 to the small petrol station run by VJ. Hell, she knew the proprietor by name, his birthday, his wife and kids. In the past three years, she had spent more time with this shop owner than John or his creepy little brother, Ian. She was glad Ash occasionally popped over, less so now John worked abroad. That guy was a hopeless jerk, always trying too hard. She guessed he was another in the thrall of easy going, effortlessly charming and wonderfully handsome John.

The selection was small. Helen herself had made a major dent in the supplies at the garage. She pondered over the cola flavoured icepops and the one tub left of Cookies and Creme Ice Cream. She wanted butterscotch or toffee but for that she would have to wait for Tesco's to open at 8. She bought two icepops and a large bar of Dairy Milk Chocolate to tide her over and waddled back to her third floor flat on Prospect Street. She stood transfixed behind a tree as she observed Ash staring at her flat from the street. There was a loud bang, glass shattered and Flat 3d, her home, erupted in flame. Helen stood shocked for a moment before coming to her senses. She was perfectly placed, to be unobserved, by the bins to the rear of the block of flats opposite her former home. She watched Ash leave and then returned to the garage. VJ's brother ran a taxi firm. She would travel to Waterloo, and put the escape plan John had arranged into motion. Her world had just merged with John's. If she was in danger so was he. She started to make plans, VJ also had a range of under the counter, probably hot mobile phones for sale. She would warn John and then get the hell out of London. She checked her purse. She had all her rent money, £750 in cash. She thanked god for cravings, for the fact Mr. Monroe insisted on cash for her monthly rent and for the fact John was a paranoid bastard and had drummed into her the idea of trusting no one. Ash had just tried to kill her and her child. That hardened Helen like no other truth would. John was a calculating cold killer under all that charm. The double crossing psychopath Anthony Sean Howell, John's idea of a godparent for their unborn child, was now a dead man walking.


	2. Chapter 2

There was definitely too much going on in John Rider's life at the moment. He was juggling his crumbling marriage, work for Scorpia and the actual part of his life making his skin crawl, which was his duplicity in sending information to MI6. He found working for Scorpia surprisingly enjoying. He respected and connected with the training team at Malagosto. He made a game of flirting with his boss, Julia Rothman. He even really liked his new partner, who was eighteen and far too young for this work, but determined and very good under pressure, as the young Russian had proved in the Amazon. It had taken a lot of work to get the boy to open up, but there were the beginnings of trust, essential for any partnership, emotional or professional. John had been testing him, pushing his buttons, young Yassen was going to make a formidable operative.

He sent information to his handler Jones, but he was no unthinking yes man. He was appalled that only two out of his last eight targets were viewed worthy of saving by MI6. The pair saved included a high ranking corrupt French policeman who had just been bundled off to obscurity in witness protection and the rogue CIA agent undercover with the Russian Mafia. The CIA agent who had sold out operatives from several agencies and various low life hoods to claw his way into Romanov's inner circle. He had expected the Vatican banker to be saved, but he had been killed to make way for a Scorpia sympathizer.

In Paris, John had been more worried about Yassen than his own wife. Helen could look after herself, she always had. The kid was too clever and had reached the crux in his own future path, to stay or to disappear into obscurity. To be truthful his marriage was less of a team and more of two strident individuals madly, deeply and passionately in love. If they spent more than two weeks together, their current record for cohabiting, they would have realized their mutual attraction was no basis for long term stability. They had juggled their affair perfectly with long separations and fantastic reunions. With a child, that was unlikely to work, not than John blamed the unplanned pregnancy for the current fissure between his wife and himself. Helen was a woman who lived life by her rules, made plans she adhered to, long term plans. She had seen this child as a blessing and was now a mother polar bear with cub. John was still her occasional lover, not partner. He daren't tell her he still owned the house in Chelsea. She believed he had sold it to play for lawyers, when his whole farce of his manslaughter conviction, imprisonment and release on appeal had been an MI6 plot. MI6 had sown the seeds that were driving Helen away, and he had let them. He should have gone back to London with Helen after their meeting in Paris; left Yassen, left Scorpia and told MI6 to get someone else to play assassin. His decision to follow Yassen was the easiest choice, the choice to avoid the inevitable break up with his beloved Helen for a later date. In Paris, his charm had not worked, he had looked in his beautiful Helen's eyes, smiled seductively; but she had not melted. They had not resolved their issues with the usual wonderful, perfect and violently passionate sex. There had been no coupling only the short talk of Helen's future plans and there had been a lot of 'I' in that speech and no 'we'.

John Rider had followed the distraught Yassen to Moscow after their small fall out in Paris. He had found the eighteen year old russian in central Moscow. They talked, Yassen of his youth and his confrontation with his former owner and abuser, the murderer responsible for the deaths of everyone at Estrov. Both understood each other and their secrets. The pair had bonded, to become partners and friends. When they had safely returned to Venice and, the team leader took his messages. There was a very short message from Helen. Something had forced her to leave London. "London not safe. Betrayed. Gone to Mimi's Place. Contact me on this mobile number soon as you can."

The young apprentice put the bags down. He watched John pale in shock as be read the message. The older man then immediately rang a number on his secure military standard mobile. With no guile or any disguising of his close relationship kept secret from Scorpia, John talked allowing Yassen to overhear. "Darling, are you OK? What happened?"

John listened as Helen explained about Ash's and MI6's betrayal. Ash had used John's own key to get into Helen's flat. A key John had left with his personal items at the Bank. While Helen had slept that double crossing bastard had rigged the place to burn. Helen had woken and left unobserved. Her craving for ice cream saving her life. Helen had left London telling no one her plans, best to let everyone think she was dead and traveling straight to her cottage in Athlone in Co. Westmeath. There Helen had planned to spend her maternity leave anyway, she was subletting the flat in Bermondsey. The house in Ireland had been left to Helen by a distant cousin, but it was still traceable.

The spy then thought on Blunt's grand plan, knowing it had been that bastard directing Ash's actions, without including John's handler, Tulip Jones. Obviously having John Rider in place with Scorpia was more important than the chance he would put his wife and child first. A grieving widower would be trapped in this legend with nothing in England to go back to. The truth of undercover work was you had one fellow agent to keep tabs on your wife or family. They were integral to keeping any legend in place. John could not be open with Helen and had used Ash as his chosen intermediary. Ash had been their best man, when John and Helen had married in haste after the operation in Prague and just before the Scorpia plan came into play. That had been John's overture to Helen that he wanted long term, stability, that she was the one for him. Helen had been wonderful dutiful wife while he was in prison, getting a young journalist to work with her on a campaign to free him which had dismayed Tulip Jones, but had gotten his placement with Scorpia achieved ahead of schedule.

Then, Helen asked the million dollar question. "Why, John? Ash has been here instead of you. He even offered to go to Lamaze class with me. He tried to kill me. That means either Ash is a bloody psycho or there is more going on here than I know about. Are you fucking that bastard?"

John had always been open about his bisexuality. In Helen he found the perfect lover, a woman who was aggressive and passionate enough for John's tastes and proclivities for rough sex. "I promise we were not lovers. Ash is 100% heterosexual, hell he hit on you, love. No, he ... he was under orders, I guess. From the people I used to work for." John had made a decision, MI6 be damned. Ash called him a true patriot, but this game was no place for that, not when those you trusted most were cold blooded bastards themselves. "Move... move now. I have a safe house in Clare. Have you got the bag from the lockup in Waterloo?"

Helen said a quick affirmation. She had prepared her own escape documents, helped by the fact her father's mother had been born in Ireland and her own mother had been French. She had two alternative passports, both in her maiden name, but not connected to the English nurse. She could speak broken irish gaelic but was fluent in French. She had internationally accepted nursing accreditations, so could work anywhere in Europe. She never expected to have to run, thinking it had been part of John's plan to escape the kangaroo justice over a bar fight gone wrong. The other guy had started the fight, had stopped John walking away. Now, Ash was involved with some serious bad guys. Questions Helen had never asked out loud, keeping her suspicions to herself, guessing John was involved in things she did not want the answers to. Things that could not be discussed on the phone.

"In the base of the bag, cut out the lining. There's cash, and two addresses. The one in Co. Clare. If you still have your mini, sell it. Better if you just abandon and burn the thing."

Her car off the road for five years but kept in working order by John's tinkering. Helen had sold it in Athlone, for scrap. Guessing money the small amount of cash in hand was more important than transport. It had been a wreck anyway, needed a serious amount of welding to pass its MOT next time around, and its brakes and suspension were not much better. She had owned it for thirteen years, she had even named the thing, Daisy. "I have the address. We need to talk. By the way, you have a son. Born three days ago on the 13th. If you have any leave due from your bodyguard work, come see me and soon." With that Helen put down the phone. No goodbye, no affirmation of love, John Rider was expected to face her ultimatum and to tell her the truth.

John looked at Yassen. Knowing the kid had excellent hearing. "Your old friends have tried to kill your wife?" The russian stated simply as a question.

"Soon to be ex-wife." John knew everything had just changed. The man stood stock still, the only sign of his anger, his burning need for vengence was a darkening of his stormy grey eyes. Hhis face emotionless, relaxed betrayed nothing. Yassen's admiration for this man grew.

Yassen then added, "I will deal with Ash. I need to perfect my knife skills." The russian had balked at the idea of cutting up that target in Paris. He had passed his training with Dr. Three. Practical application of skills was needed and what better than one who had betrayed his only friend and his mentor, who had driven home the fact only personal connections were true, all else shadows and lies. Yassens own connection with John was strengthened by shared secrets, they were closer than brothers. John's last lesson had been their was no real loyalty to any organisation. The only one you could truly to rely on was those you loved and trusted, that betrayal was the only one that counted.

"Don't kill him. I want that bastard to be forever watching his back seeing me in the shadows. You are just leaving a calling card. I want him to be a nervous wreck." John touched Yassen and then clasped his hand. "You understand that I need to see Helen." Work with Scorpia allowed each agent leeway, as long as they paid their training debts, other freelance work was allowed. Any job could be passed to another willing operative. Refusal was accepted. In many ways it was easier and more liberating than working for an official agency. "I'll give you expenses and five grand for your time. Meet me in Clare afterwards." John then whispered the address in Yassen's ear. "I'm going to talk to Julia. If anything happens, look after Helen for me."


	3. Chapter 3

Julia smiled with genuine fondness as John Rider was shown into her office. He stood in front of her desk to attention, every inch the highly trained soldier he was. "My wife Helen has contacted me. We are having problems, but something has happened and I need to make sure she is safe. She also wants a divorce."

Julia Rothman was rarely shocked and had not expected this. "I thought she was happy with your living arrangements." The Head of Scorpia Operations at Malagosto knew the personal details of all her staff. Most of the assassins were loners, with neither family or partners, preferring to work alone. John was different, he had a long term open relationship, but was estranged from his brother. She admired the man who had fluid loyalties and one who liked playing with fire.

John looked at this dangerous woman, one he was sure was far more ruthless than Alan Blunt. "I have enemies from my past. I was dishonourably discharged from the paras. You know I was really with the SAS. I did some jobs for special operations at MI6. Black ops for Alan Blunt. I guess he has taken my work for you as a personal insult. My wife's flat was firebombed. She's changing locations to one of my safe houses. Its the final straw for her, hence her demand for legal separation. She has new priorities now." John then to disclose the real reason for Helen's departure. "She gave birth to a son."

"Your child?" The woman asked with an impassive, unreadable face, as if discussing the weather. John did not know how this woman would take that revelation.

"Maybe... if the kid is mine, I will be a father to him. Visitation, support all that crap. I just want you to understand I'm taking some personal time. I've asked Yassen to go to London to leave a message for me regarding their attempt to kill my wife."

Julia processed what had just been said. "I'd be happy to make your pissing contest with Blunt official Scorpia business."

John had noted the woman had said nothing about his personal life, that could be as much a sticking point for Scorpia as it was obviously for the Bank. "No, keep working for them... just its personal with me and them now. Blunt sent one of Helen's exes to do the dirty on her. He was ex-army, we worked together in Prague. Yassen will put the frighteners on him, just enough to let Blunt know to back off. I'll make sure Helen is safe. I owe it to her. Our relationship was good. She got me, like most women don't."

Julia knew there had been an assault charge against John in the early 1970's which had been withdrawn by the girl, when he had left home and not looked back. The psychiatrist at Malagosto had evaluated the man as having strong sexual urges but with a preference for violent and rough sex. Not many women went for that sort of thing. John wanted someone that could switch, both dominant and masochistic to give and take, like himself. He had in the past settled for male lovers to satisfy his requirements. Vanilla sex was not on John Rider's list of turn ons.

She had enjoyed their prolonged flirtation, but one of her unwritten rules was that she did not fuck staff. "Ok, John. I'm glad this misunderstanding with the British will not affect your future work with us."

"I can't guarantee that. If they want me dead, this could be a rouse to accomplish the task. If this is a problem, I would expect you to be honest with me. Hell, tell me straight Julia and I'll put a bullet in my brain here. If I make it clean I only request you make sure Helen and her son are out of Blunt's sights. Also don't let my brother Ian get a bloody thing."

Julia raised an eyebrow at that. John was offering to do the honourable thing, an officer died rather than cause embarrassing problems. The British Army had hung John out to dry three years ago. Now, MI6 were trying to limit the damage caused by one of their own going freelance.

"Go to your Helen, sort out the divorce and the paternity problem. This will be a first for us, but I guess I'll have to build in family time into your schedule." Julia said without any emotion, before waving her hand to dismiss her best assassin and trainer. No family problems would have to be accommodated, she did not want to loose her best operative, especially one as hard working and as talented as Hunter.

...

John had shown Yassen photographs of his small wedding. His target was handsome, almost beautiful, stood smiling at John's side. The young Russian knew all about how to subjugate, to hurt and destroy someone though pain, humiliation and utter powerlessness. Yassen's life with Sharkovsky had been his learning curve. The young assassin was still putting his own personal demons to rest. Cossack was in the position of Master, the controller of his life now. He wanted to make his calling card to MI6 for John a thing of beauty in itself. Yassen sat in the squat in Haringey and meditated on his anatomy lessons with Dr. Three. The Chinese Doctor had shown each student at Malagosto how to break a subject, but also how to purposefully scar and to disfigure. Interrogation was only the tip of the iceberg in the long history of sadism, pain and torture.

...

Alan Blunt reread the official report regarding the firebombing in Bermondsey. The blast and ensuing fire had killed five. It had been detective work on the human remains as the intensity of the inferno had left little except fragmentary skeletal remains. The pathologist's report was inconclusive. One skeleton was unidentified, but could be either Helen Beckett or her neighbour Mrs. Edina Patel. Neither had any relatives and the dental remains were too fragmentary from the seat of the fire to be conclusive. Ash had confirmed Helen had been asleep in bed before he set the detonator on the accelerant.

Their agent, John Rider had not called in for four weeks. Since the job in Paris. In deep cover it might be several more weeks before he was handed another job and had reason to contact them again. Blunt was aware Rider was training assassin's at the moment, not working as an operative himself. It meant the information gained from him was sporadic. The longer he stayed with Scorpia, the more detailed information he would pass on. Blunt had other problems to juggle, Tulip Jones was herself pregnant. Blunt was considering making either Crawley or Howell, John's new handler, but he had months before he had to make that decision.

The Head of Special Operations had liked John Rider, he always played his cards close to his chest. Blunt did not know how or if John kept in regular contact with his wife outside of official MI6 channels. Ash had not informed of any meetings between the pair since Helen found out about her pregnancy. Ash had previously confirmed the child was definitely John's and that John was aware of his wife's condition. Scorpia had kept the man very busy, Rider might not even know Helen was dead. Then again, was she? Blunt dismissed that thought. The woman would have contacted Ash straight away, if she was alive. To get hold of John. She could have gone to ground but it was unlikely for an untrained civilian to accomplish this. Ash's report had stated no activity on her bank account, no hits on her passport nor any contact with any of her known friends. He closed the file and then went onto the next item on his long to do list.

...

The house at Lahinch was small, rural and basic. It was a two mile walk to the village and its shops. Helen had arrived and her first visitor, her neighbour Edna O'Neill, had arrived with a pram to help her out. Helen had clothes and supplies for the baby but no cot or buggy. Helen had taken her cousin's name of Brennan and her middle name of Ailene, which was close enough to Helen. For the moment it was safer not to use either Beckett or Rider. Her son was not registered yet, but she had another four weeks for that. Little Alexander was a calm baby, just the business with her bus journey across Ireland. The neighbours listening with horror as she spoke of the fire, loosing all the possessions and relying on a friend's kindness letting her live in his holiday home. She still wore her wedding ring. All questions of "and Mr. Brennan?'

"He works abroad" was her only answer to that question.

Mrs. O'Neill was the first to spot the BMW rental car pull up outside Mrs. Brennan's house. The old woman was on the phone immediately to gossip.

John hugged Helen in the doorway. The couple stood in that moment just thankful both were safe, alive and here.

"My darling...darling Helen.."

Then the petite blond broke her hug. "Its Ailene Brennan, now. I... I've been lonely. I miss London. My friends. My work." At that moment the pram by the fire emitted a grunt. "Alex is awake. Come meet your son."

Helen picked up a pink bald baby, who was wearing old fashioned knitted ensemble. "As you see I made myself busy with Mimi's extensive knitting pattern collection and mountain of unused wool. Yes, John I can knit. Surprising how little you really know about me. You never really asked about my cousin. You were on the way to the South Atlantic when she died. Mimi looked after me after my parents died in car crash in 1967. She was a nurse. I idolised her." Helen looked at John and smiled. The change from uptight to happy illuminating her tired face. "John meet Alexander... Alex, this is your daddy."

Sean Brennan that night bought drinks for the entire town to celebrate the birth of his son. John easily passed himself off as 'Sean', a London Irish Engineer working in Nigeria. That evening, Helen Beckett sat with her son, listening to the radio and nursing her son. John had finally told her the truth, exposing the fact for the past five years everything he had told her had been officially sanctioned bullshit. Tomorrow, he was taking Helen shopping in Limerick in the morning. Tomorrow, they would start the process of legal separation, her with custody of Alex. John had promised to be a hands on father. She would have to wait and see about that.


	4. Chapter 4

WARNING: CHAPTER CONTAINS VIOLENCE AND TORTURE

Ash woke disorientated, the last thing he recalled was that he had been walking to the corner shop after work to buy cigarettes and had stopped to give a guy a light. He took in the details of his location, a dingy abandoned house by the looks of things. He was handcuffed and tied to a chair with electrical cord, his mouth covered in tape. He tested the fact he was completely immobile, each limb and his body firmly secured in place with no give, but not restrictive enough to prevent blood flow. He tried to move or topple the chair, but it appeared to be bolted down to the floor. He looked at the room for exits, single door behind him. Wooden boards were on the windows, the glass covered in cobwebs and dirt, an overhead bare bulb illuminated the room with its plain wooden floor, rubbish cleared to the corners, peeling paint and wallpaper and the smell of fusty damp. The fireplace had been removed as had the radiators. There was a battered Calor gas heater in the far corner heating the room, keeping the February chill at bay. Ash had been partially stripped and searched. Only in his shirt, pants and trousers. No shoes, no socks, no jumper or coat.

He wondered how long he had been unconscious. He had a dry mouth and his head was fuzzy. He had no idea if it had been a precise blow to his head or chemical sedation. He had never been kidnapped or interrogated before, except during training in Wales. That had been 72 hours but without the sheer terror of uncertainty that gripped him now.

He needed to urinate. After an hour he was sat in a cold wet patch of his own filth, he was snivelling. This was worse than RTI.

Yassen entered the room behind his subject. He was silent as he moved, even his breathing was soft, even and unobserved by the MI6 agent trussed up and smelling like a latrine.

In soft, low whisper the russian laced with disgust, "You have soiled yourself. You are such a naughty boy. I will have to punish you."

Ash could not see his assailant, hidden in the shadows, but it was definitely not Hunter. What the hell had happened? He had been tailed by protection, a van outside his house, he was supposed to be acting as bait for John.

"If you are wondering about your fellow agents in the transit van. I'm afraid they won't be reporting anything to Mr. Blunt or Mrs. Jones, not any more. My orders are to have some fun with you." The four in the security detail had died in quick succession, Yassen had perfected his marksmanship and had no problems with his conscious or nerves, not after the events in Moscow.

The voice was soft even. Then the man stepped forward to be in his guest's direct line of sight for the first time. Stood dressed head to toe in black with a balaclava covering everything except his eyes, which were dark and cold. The man wore fine surgical gloves, two pairs. To stop cross contamination. Ash started to hyperventilate at the thought of being cut to ribbons to force answers from him.

"I am not going to interrogate you. I won't be long. I have no interest in your work or your worth. I am here for vengeance."

Yassen pulling out a sharp British Military issue commandos knife.

He cut off the clothes off his subject and then admired the naked body of this handsome dark haired and bearded man. He then used the knife to cut off the facial hair, to remove the long mop on his head to leave brutal badly shaved head and finally the pubic hair was hacked off.

"Not so pretty now, are you Anthony?"

Yassen the switched off the fire. Cold did not affect him. He then used his long lean fingers to trace the nerve points. Undecided wether to fully humiliate this man. One that had possibly never been subjected to forced anal penetration. That would wait until last. The knife was cleaned meticulously under the glare of the prisoner. "We do not want any infections."

The knife cut fine lines across the body, enough to leave deep scars, Yassen then started on the man's face. The nose, ears and cheeks were incised, torn and flayed. Never causing his subject too much pain. Just enough agony to accompany the ragged breathing, the snot, blood and tears flowing freely. The man gagged, so unable to scream, beg or plead.

Yassen then cut the cords binding the man to the chair. Leaving on the handcuffs. He pushed the weakened man onto the floor. Yassen then started on the mans back and buttocks. Incising red lines, blood pooling on the floor.

The man was still awake. Sniveling and shaking. Yassen finished by picking up a filthy broken broom handle and pushing it into the unprepared anus of the man. He then cleaned his knife again. He had been meticulous, leaving no forensic evidence, no hairs or fingerprints. He walked into the sunshine into the yard of the house, pulling off the bloody gloves and damp balaclava and putting them into a plastic bag, pulling on overalls and a workman's helmet and work gloves and stowing his soiled items safely in a small rucksack for later disposal. He walked out of the gate and to the street corner. In the phone booth he rang 999, alerting the need for an ambulance for a man at 109 Raleigh Road, to be quick as he was going into shock.

...

Ash had been unconscious when the ambulance crew arrived. He woke in ICU and began to cry. Wondering what he looked like. What he could see was a covering of dressings. He had been tranquilized and transferred to a private room when Tulip Jones and John Crawley arrived to debrief him. The surveillance team following Ash had been brutally murdered. Four soldiers, an entire SAS team, shot in the head. Ash alive but brutalised and disfigured.

"He wanted revenge." Ash stated in a flat voice.

"Was it Rider?" Crawley asked. There was no official reason to suspect anyone except John Rider. There were no tell tale Scorpia calling cards. If it had been Scorpia, Ash would be dead or would never have been found. All information would have been wrung from him before death.

"No, not John. Taller, slimmer than John. Wore a balaclava, also contacts. Blond... very blond eyelashes."

Jones then piped up, "Rider's apprentice then." They had very little info on Cossack. Young, possibly russian, one blurry long range photograph supplied by the French Security Sevices from Paris.

Crawley frowned. "Why not Hunter?"

"If Scorpia suspect him, we may never know. The death of his wife may have made him sloppy. The fact another Scorpia operative came to enact vengeance is not anything we factored on."

The nurse came in with two bunches of roses, one red, one white. "Umm excuse me. Mr Howell has been sent flowers from a Helen Beckett and a John Rider. The cards aren't very nice."

Tulip Jones reached out and read. The card from Helen simply said 'Burn and die, you bastard. I trusted you'. John's said 'Be seeing you. Hoped you liked the gift from my apprentice. I must say I liked his detailed description of your time together.'


	5. Chapter 5

To be truthful, Julia Rothman was not religious. Both her parents had been dyed in the wool Marxist's. She had married briefly, converting to the Roman Catholic Church, giving the impression of a devout and dutiful wife to satisfy her husband, but she neither believed in good or evil, just people and their own actions and motivations. Yet here she stood, in the small chapel of San Giovanni Cristosomo in Venice, renouncing the devil for her godson, Alexander John Rider. The priest had flown in from Dublin, he was retired and a distant relative of Helen. That was another strange fact, that Helen had been warm and welcoming, even with her and John's open flirtation.

They had met formally for a family dinner the night before. Helen had smiled and watched the introductions and had then stated with no guile. "You are a better woman than I, you are too smart to fall for John's charms. Though it is nice to be the centre of his attention. I love him, but he's a lying bastard. We were never monogamous. I was surprised when he wanted to marry. I now know it was purely to secure in death benefits for his high risk security work. I just can't believe those people he used to work for are so ruthless, to try and murder me to get to John."

John's wife was nothing like Julia expected. Small, delicate, blond and pretty, most would assume she was a simpering doll. The nurse was smart, sure of herself and very intuitive. Julia was almost tempted to offer the woman a job, but Malagosto was no place for a child. John's wife, rather than be annoyed by his flirting, was amused by it, as if she expected it. John Rider was always looking for lovers.

John had set Helen up with a small apartment on the Lido, away from the tourists and the crowds, but frequently visited by John and Yassen. Helen was also making friends with the locals, her italian slowly improving.

After the simple but good supper, food all prepared by Helen. The men went out to smoke cigars and drink brandy on the balcony, leaving the ladies to talk. Julia asked the one question she had been dying to know. "Are you and John still intimate?"

"Yes... I know I'm a fool, but I try to date, but I dislike one night stands and most men run away when they see see me as a 35 year old single mother, its not what most men want. John and I are living separate lives, but god, the sex is still good." Then, Helen lit up a cigarette and poured more wine into both their glasses. "He's a good father. I thought he'd run a mile when I told him I was pregnant last autumn. I never expected anything, I would never entrap him with expectations, but he spends time with Alex, just to give me a break. Yassen is a good kid as well." Helen then looked at Julia, "You do know the two of them are lovers. Yassen is not jealous at all that John.. well does what he has always done, be open and easy. I think Yassen sees the common sense of it. If you're not into the getting married, living together, living in suburbia with your two kids and commuting to work, why live with societies expectations." Helen then looked at Julia. "So, do you have someone special, away from work?"

"I tend to go for one night stands, since Sandro's death. Its just easier. I do not plan to marry again." So, Mrs. Rothman had a woman who treated her as an equal, not the usual threatened spouse or girlfriend. Helen Rider was likely to move away, when she started to work again because Helen Beckett was adamant her career was only on temporary hold.

Mrs. Rothman, wealthy widow and Director of Scorpia had never been invited to be a godparent before. She stood next to the blank faced Russian teenager, who like her was unreligious but had been proud to be named godfather for the pink silent baby, who was watching the priest intently. The splash of water on the babies skin caused giggles from the infant not screams, delighting the Priest. Julia then got to hold the baby for the first time.

...

Ian Rider stood at the photocopier. His job as a Entry Level Clerk at the Foreign Office in Whitehall was tedious and boring. He spoke three languages fluently, but spent most of his time filing and photocopying. He had been there and done this as a sixteen and seventeen year old working part-time at his cousin's bookkeeping office. He had a first from Cambridge, he was meant to be going places, only he had gone to New Mills Comprehensive, five miles from Over Hill Farm where he had grown up. There he had been following the trail blazed by John. National under-16 Karate Champion, Playing football, rugby and cricket at County Level, only to leave home at 17, to join the army. Ian was never quite as sporty but just as academic, he had made Head Boy but everyone stil talked of John and the lies spread about by Mary Belper. Her charge of rape had not stuck and John had left after the Police stated there was no case to answer. She had agreed to sex, then changed her mind. John had not forced her, he had apologised and left. It was a misunderstanding.

Ian had seen his brother occasionally since. When Ian had asked his brother about this incident, John had laughed, that some girls were cock teases. They talked big but wanted to lay back and think of England. His brother had then explained, he liked girls with spirit, one who took control, liked to fuck and be adventurous.

John had lived with that nurse for years. He should have married someone who was more the right type. He had been an officer in the British Army and Helen Beckett was an older woman with bohemian tendencies. Free love and open relationships were just not done. John would never progress in rank without the right woman at his side, then he'd been arrested, charged and found guilty of manslaughter ad kicked out of the Army. Ian had not spoken to his brother since, even after his release on appeal. John had up and disappeared. Ian had spoken to Helen twice, both times she had been cold, giving no information, just stating the fact when John had needed Ian, he'd shown his true colours.

At the end of another boring and tedious day, Ian had a pint at his local in South London, 25 minutes walk from Whitehall. He was renting a room in Clapham. Ian often wondered on the house in Chelsea John had done it up. Modernising a wreck he'd bought on Cheyne Walk in 1976. Ian had been an infrequent visitor as a teenager.

Ian sat and mused on his life to this point, when a woman sat next to him. With a casual glance the young civil servant appraised the rather plain, well dressed young woman in her late twenties with dark hair, who smelt of peppermints. "Good evening." The woman stated in a neutral tone.

Ian did not want conversation, flirting or any interaction and firmly stated "I'm not interested." He wasn't. He dated a string of girls as an undergraduate at Cambridge University, but quickly found out, without a family name, a trust fund and a decent pedigree he was not any girls idea of a future. Some day, he'd marry the right sort, send his kids to a good school and provide the right future for them. No, Ian was not going to make the same mistakes as his charming but dangerous brother.

"I don't want a drink or a date. My name is Mrs. Tulip Jones. I'm an account manager at the Royal and General Bank in London. I was hoping to persuade you to attend an interview."

"I've never heard of the Royal and General, I guess you aren quite in the same league as Coutts?"

"Oh we are a small bank but we have branches all over the world."


End file.
